With my unfailing luck it was a gay bar that I chose as a cave in which to lick my wounds. It was dark and very wooden, and with a name like the Ninth Avenue Saloon, who would've thought? When I first walked in there were just a few regular workingclass guys having an afternoon beer: a construction worker, a mailman, some other nondescript laborer. Little did I know that it was more of a Village People routine than a simple Happy Hour crowd. When the Asian businessmen and flamboyant artists sauntered in half an hour later it became quite clear that I was surrounded by homosexuals in their celebratory nest of sodomy. But again, how was I to know? The rainbow flag next to the mirror behind the bar seemed commonplace; many businesses in the city show their support. And the jar of neon NYC condoms sitting on the bar between my coaster and the bowl of popcorn so graciously presented to me-- that could fit in anywhere, too. To be honest it didn't bother me at first. The Spaniard tending bar was making my Canadian Club-and-Cokes fairly strong, though now I question his motives, and the silent looks I received from the corners of various eyes were not so intolerable. My black wool watchman's cap, thick beard, and heavily tattooed arms must've thrown them off a bit. I honestly believe the glances I received were more of a sizing-up than a checking-out; they knew I wasn't one of them, they just wanted to know what in God's fairy-hating name I was doing in their fine establishment. And really, considering my reason for being there, it made quite a bit of sense: the Ninth Avenue Saloon was the last place I'd encounter another woman.
But of course, as in any fine tale, there has to be a conflict. Mine came half an hour into my medicinal drinking. I'd been diligently plugging away at a crossword puzzle the whole time in between long sips of my cocktail when an elderly gentleman walked in from the cold. The stool next to mine must've had his name written all over it despite the fact that I was sitting far down the oak minding my own business with plenty of empty seats between the door and me. He sat down, glanced over at me rather conspicuously, and ordered a beverage. I felt his eyes all over me, could hear his brain arguing with itself over what to say. It was one of the most uncomfortable feelings I've ever experienced. I now know what those poor young women who get gawked and whistled at as they walk by construction sites feel like; except I was never and would never be interested in any advances made by a man, let alone such an old and ugly one.
"It's very cold today," my new fan pathetically broke the ice with. He was an unflattering seventy with a grotesque scar that split the front of his nose in two. It looked like an ancient axe wound, the kind of thing that makes ex-lovers cringe in retrospect and young mothers turn the heads of their staring children.
"That's the Northeast for you. Maybe you should move down South." I sipped my whiskey and kept my eyes fixed on the crossword book before me. Sixty-nine down was a hard one, alright. The irony did not go unnoticed.
"Ah, very true. It is to be expected." I noticed a European accent that I couldn't distinguish.
The old man didn't peel his eyes from me once. I felt his corneas burning into my flesh. Part of me wanted to put my coat back on for some protection from this utter violation, but it'd be too blatant. I was hoping he'd take the hint and leave me alone if I gave him the cold shoulder. You'd think I would've learned about how far hope gets me by now.
I had to shatter the awkward silence for fear that I'd explode so I asked him where he hailed from. "France," was all that he replied with as if to discourage any further discussion of his origins. I was not so disappointed, though it made me wonder if he'd had some horrible childhood that had chased him to America, to the bars, to other men's arms, to believing that it was OK to hit on me even though I was so very uninterested. Had his stubborn persistence earned him that hideous scar on his nose in his unfathomable youth? I almost started to feel sorry for the man, but he obliterated my pity shortly afterwards.
"You have a lot of tattoos," he said, touching the piece on my right forearm and thus crossing another boundary. "This one is interesting."
I lifted my arm to show him in the dim light of the bar. "It's a pipewrench, a pen, and a pin-up girl," I said with a bit of emphasis on the last word. That hoping got me nowhere again. Frenchie was relentless.
"I see. You're doing quite well with the crossword," he commented, his praise as unwanted as his company. A sick smile shot across his pock-marked face.
"These last few are tough," I said, catching myself before I shared which number I was stuck on at the moment. Putting any unclean images in his head was the last thing I needed.
"The last ones always are," he replied with the air of a man who's done a thousand puzzles in his lifetime. His eyes burned hotter than ever.
In a sincere effort to give my stalker a hint I turned to my left and asked the Asian man in business attire the time, not caring that I clearly had a watch on my wrist. He answered coldly without glancing in my direction. The others weren't going to bail me out. I had invaded their territory, thrown off the balance of their atmosphere, and would have to fend for myself. It sounds odd, I know, but I felt so betrayed.
I had to get up. The bathroom seemed the only logical escape, and the three cocktails I'd downed didn't disagree with leaving my body. By the time I returned from relieving myself Frenchie had relocated to the far side of the bar.
Another old man came out of the woodwork and stood behind Frenchie. He rubbed his shoulders vigorously, kissed him on the lips when he turned around, and consoled him. "Don't feel bad," he said with a feminine voice that didn't match his burly physique. Right. Sure. Side with him-- the rude old pervert who can't take a hint. It was time for me to head back to her apartment. These guys weren't my type, and not because of their sexual orientation. They simply weren't fair. I'd had enough of that feeling for one day.
"Alright, gentleman. Have a good one," I proclaimed after donning my coat and leaving a hefty tip. The heavy-handed bartender deserved it. He made my drinks as strong as I would've at home. I felt that he was the only one on my side in the joint, even if he was trying to get me sauced up to lower my inhibitions for the sharks to make the kill. A few stray nods and "Take cares" mumbled out from the ranks of the regulars and I was out the door and on my way.
The avenue felt strangely warmer on my walk back even though the sun had set. My pockets were filled by my firm fists for a lack of a better place to put my hands, not to stay warm. A Mexican bus boy was closing down the outdoor eating area of a cafe for the evening. I was five steps too short to aid him by holding the door as he wrestled a dish bin full of cheap porcelain in through the entrance of the establishment. It felt like a crime in timing.
She'd be angry when she smelled the whiskey on my breath, and the comedic affect of my mishap wouldn't warrant telling the story. "Karma," she'd probably say. Maybe she'd be right.
Three pigeons picked at some chicken bones in the street. I wondered if they realized they'd become cannibals.
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